


To Days Gone By

by superqueerdanvers



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, crowley is grantaire, one-sided enjolras/grantaire but with crowley as grantaire, otherwise the basic plot of les mis stays pretty much the same
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 08:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20702771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superqueerdanvers/pseuds/superqueerdanvers
Summary: Crowley had known befriending Les Amis de l'ABC was a bad idea, but even he hadn't expected Hell to ask him to sabotage their rebellion.On the first June 4th after the Apocalypse, Crowley is getting ready to leave for Paris when Aziraphale calls, and he decides to tell him why he's going to Paris.





	1. Chapter 1

The First June 4th after the Apocalypse

Crowley was closing his suitcase when Aziraphale called.

“Hello, Crowley! I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t believe we’ve ever had sushi together. There’s a lovely little place over on Regent Street. Would you like to have dinner there tonight?”

“Hey, uh, Aziraphale, I’m actually leaving town for a few days.”

“Oh?”

“Look, I’d love to have sushi with you, really, but this is really important, and I…I jussst can’t tonight.” Crowley tried and failed to keep the hiss from his voice.

“My dear, is something wrong? Where are you going?” Aziraphale paused, then realized, “Oh, Crowley, this isn’t about Hell, is it? Did they contact you, or—“

“No, no! Hell’s still leaving me alone. I’m going to Paris.”

Aziraphale’s sigh of relief was audible even over the phone. “That sounds lovely! But…why are you upset?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re hissing, dear. What’s going on?”

Crowley sighed. He couldn’t keep it from Aziraphale forever. “Look, I can’t tell you over the phone. I’m coming over.”

A few minutes later, Crowley and Aziraphale were sitting in the back room of the bookshop. In contrast with his usual sprawl, Crowley was coiled in on himself. Finally, he took a deep breath and met Aziraphale’s eyes. “So, I had this group of friends…”

* * *

Crowley knew getting involved with Les Amis de l’ABC was a bad idea. For one thing, they were human. They might live another 50, 60, maybe 70 years at the most, but then they would die, and he would have to deal with that loss. For another, they were revolutionaries. France had had many revolutions and changes of government in the past few decades. None seemed to stick, and Crowley had no reason to believe Les Amis would be any more successful than Robespierre. And there was his own experience with revolutions to consider; he had asked questions, wanted to change things for the better, and all he’d achieved was a Fall. If he joined Les Amis, he was guaranteed to get hurt.

But he _liked_ them. He liked them as a group – he hadn’t truly had a group of friends since before Falling, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed the camaraderie. He liked their politics, their love of debate, their idealism. They knew things were bad, but they were sure they could change them for the better. He liked them individually – Combeferre’s thoughtfulness, Bossuet’s laughter, Jehan’s poetry, Courfeyrac’s charm, Feuilly’s love of learning, Joly’s cheerfulness, Bahorel’s boldness, Marius’s innocence.

And then there was their leader. Enjolras. With his long golden curls and piercing blue eyes. He was so beautiful, he resembled a statue more than a real person. And he was full of revolutionary fire. He truly believed in the revolution, perhaps more than any of the others. He believed in truth, in justice, in the dignity of every human being. His highest ideals were liberty, equality, and fraternity. His first love was the French Revolution. And though he was the most passionate of the Amis, he was also the most aware of the potential consequences, save Crowley. He knew full well that he might die fighting for a better world, and he accepted it. To Crowley, he was irresistible.

Crowley tried to keep his distance, to not get too attached to Les Amis. He insulted their revolutionary ideals, snarked at Enjolras, and drank heavily. But his heart wasn’t in it, and they could tell. Whenever they needed him, he was there. When they needed a place to meet, Crowley found the wine shop Corinthe. When Marius was pining over a girl, Crowley, Courfeyrac, and Bossuet took him to a ball at Sceaux. When the painters and sculptors at the Barrière du Maine began to lose interest in the revolution, Crowley volunteered to speak to them[1]. In spite of himself, Crowley was part of Les Amis de l’ABC.

And so, on June 5, 1832, when a group of Les Amis burst into the Rue Saint-Denis after Lamarque’s funeral, Crowley was in the Corinthe, drinking and eating oysters with Joly and Bossuet. Bossuet immediately suggested building a barricade there, and Crowley was quickly swept up in the frenzy of gathering and stacking barrels and paving stones. He was alone in the Corinthe’s cellar for the moment when a carrier pigeon flew through the open trap door.

The pigeon opened its beak, and Crowley’s stomach dropped. “HELLO, CROWLEY,” Dagon’s voice said. “HAIL SATAN.”

“Hail…er…yeah,” Crowley mumbled in reply.

“WE HAVE A JOB FOR YOU.”

“I’m listening.”

“WE KNOW YOU ARE IN PARIS. THERE IS A STUDENT REBELLION UNDER WAY. SABOTAGE IT.”

“Ssssssss…” Crowley stopped, licked his lips, took a deep breath, and tried again. “Sabotage it?”

“MAKE SURE IT FAILS.”

“But…why?”

“YOU ARE NOT HERE TO ASK QUESTIONS, CROWLEY.[2] SABOTAGE THE REBELLION.” The pigeon closed its beak and flew away.

Combeferre stuck his head through the trap door. “Crowley, we need those barrels! Let’s go!”

“Jussst a minute!” Crowley called back.

He sat down heavily. It was all well and good to talk about revolution, even to help his friends build a barricade. But the forces of Hell were no National Guard, and Crowley knew he must do as he was told. If he disobeyed a direct order like this, he would tortured, maybe even killed. And in all likelihood, Hell would just send another demon to ensure the rebellion failed. Could he talk the others out of the rebellion? No, it was too late, and they were far too committed to the cause. Besides, he doubted Hell would accept “talking the rebels out of it” as sabotaging the rebellion. Crowley’s friends were going to die in a failed revolution, and it was going to be all his fault. G – Sa – _Somebody_, he’d known befriending Les Amis would end badly, but even he hadn’t expected this!

He had to sabotage the rebellion. But how? What would ensure its failure? He thought back to a few nights before, when they had just learned of Lamarque’s death, and Enjolras had suggested starting the rebellion at Lamarque’s funeral. “They will come when we call,” he’d said. Les Amis were counting on the people’s support. If no one came to help fight, they didn’t stand a chance.

Crowley took a deep, shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and _focused_. He focused on the thoughts and feelings of the people of Paris. They were scared; most had already fled indoors. They might want a better life, and there were certainly some who supported the rebellion in theory, but they weren’t sure about the reality of revolution, and they weren’t sure they were willing to risk their lives for it. Crowley used that. In his mind, he poked and prodded at the people’s fears – of death, of their families being arrested, of another Reign of Terror – until their fear outweighed their desire for change. He opened his eyes. It was done.

He made his way out of the wine cellar, stumbling with the exhaustion of psychically manipulating all of Paris, and promptly bumped into Enjolras. “Crowley!” he snapped. “I don’t have time for this. Go sober up somewhere else. Don’t disgrace the barricade.”

Crowley fell into a nearby chair and looked up at Enjolras. He looked wild and noble -- cheeks flushed with excitement, blue eyes blazing, one of his golden curls hanging in his face. He was beautiful, and he had perhaps a day left to live. “Let me sleep here,” Crowley said softly.

“Go sleep somewhere else.” His voice was cold.

“Let me sleep here – until I die.” His voice broke.

Enjolras scoffed. “Crowley, you’re incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying[3].”

“You’ll see,” Crowley replied, then collapsed against the table, asleep.

Crowley woke to a sudden silence. He raised his head, rubbed his eyes, and looked around. He noted the holes in the walls, the corpses around him. Enjolras stood in a corner, unarmed and unwounded, his arms folded, as a squad of twelve soldiers aimed their guns at him. An officer offered him a blindfold, and he refused. The soldiers prepared to shoot, and Crowley pulled himself to his feet. He had sabotaged the rebellion, and he couldn’t save Enjolras, but he was damned[4] if he was going to let him die alone.

“Vive la République!” Crowley cried. “I’m one of them.”

He realized as he met Enjolras’s eyes that his sunglasses had fallen off. Enjolras was plainly shocked by the yellow snake eyes, but to Crowley’s surprise, he did not seem frightened or disgusted.

“Vive la République,” Crowley repeated, quiet but firm, and made his way over to Enjolras.

“Two at one shot,” he said to the soldiers, then hesitated and looked back at Enjolras. “Do you permit it?” he asked softly.

Enjolras took his hand and smiled. Crowley was not sure Enjolras had ever smiled at him before, and in that moment, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. It was also the last thing he saw.

* * *

“Oh, _Crowley_…” Aziraphale whispered when he finished.

“Yeah. Er, thanks.” Crowley wiped his eyes and blew his nose. “Anyway, I go back to Paris every year, to visit their…their graves. So I should really be going…” He stood up.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale put a hand on his arm. “My dear, would it be all right if…may I come with you?”

[1] To be fair, when Enjolras arrived at the Barrière du Maine, he found Crowley distracted and playing dominoes with the artists. But he did go.

[2] Dagon may or may not have known that Crowley Fell for asking questions. If they did know, they didn’t care.

[3] Of course, Crowley really was incapable of dying, at least by the hands of ordinary humans like the National Guard. But he was capable of being discorporated.

[4] Well, more damned than he already was.


	2. Epilogue

Epilogue: The First June 6th After the Apocalypse

The cemetery was tiny; Aziraphale would have missed it if Crowley hadn’t led the way. He stopped at a wrought-iron gate between two restaurants. Past the gate, Aziraphale could see two flagpoles – one flying a red flag, and one flying the French tricolor – and about a dozen gravestones.

Crowley paused and pulled a tricolor cockade out of his pocket. It was slightly yellowed, and there was a dark stain on the edge. Aziraphale realized with a jolt that it must have been the same one Crowley had worn at the barricade.

Crowley pinned the cockade to his jacket, then opened the gate. “It took a few years for Hell to issue me a new body, but once they did, I tried to find everyone’s graves. ‘S’my fault they’re dead, so least I could do was pay my respects. But most of them were poor, and of course they’d died rebelling against the government. So they were all in unmarked graves.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley nodded. “So I started trying to find them. Bribes, minor miracles, whatever it took. Turns out, Marius had survived, and he was trying to figure it out, too. He found me, and we teamed up. Eventually, we managed to find everybody and bring them here. He’s buried here, too, now.” Crowley gestured towards a nearby gravestone.

“It’s…it’s a lovely gesture,” Aziraphale said, not sure what else to say. What could he say that wouldn’t diminish Les Amis’ sacrifice, or Crowley’s pain?

Crowley nodded and began to wander through the gravestones, pausing to look at each one. His shoulders were hunched forward, and his hands were stuffed into his pockets. After a moment, he said, “I’ve never brought anyone here before. I mean, I came with Marius a few times, but…”

“Should I...would you like me too…I can step outside if you’d prefer to be alone…”

“No!” Crowley blurted. He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand. “Stay. Please,” he whispered.

So Aziraphale stayed, walking hand-in-hand through the cemetery with Crowley. Eventually they reached Enjolras’s grave. Crowley took a deep, shuddering breath.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Aziraphale said gently. “There was nothing you could have done to save them.”

“I know, but…” Crowley closed his eyes and shook his head, then let go of Aziraphale’s hand, sank to his knees, and put his head in his hands. After a minute, he added, “_I loved him_.”

“I know.” Aziraphale knelt beside him. He hesitated, then put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “He’d be proud of you, you know. Defying Hell, saving the world. Well, supporting the child who actually saved the world, anyway.”

Crowley snorted a little through his tears. “He’d’ve liked you, too. Defying Heaven, giving away your sword.”

“I’d be honored,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley turned and pressed his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale pulled him closer, and they stayed like that, Crowley sobbing in Aziraphale’s arms, for a long while.


End file.
